( Somehow, Kylo Ren manages to look surly and unpleasant even while unconscious.
Leia had been the only one brave enough to stand within a fifty foot radius of him following Rey's departure from the general's tent. Save Luke, who hung back at his sister's elbow, only taking up his position at her immediate right once she had cleared most of the dirt and grime away from her son's face, picked the soggy, dead leaves out of his hair, with the sort of mystified, reverent air of someone having an out of body experience. Han Solo's murderer certainly didn't warrant the kind of gentle care and attention being afforded to him, and neither did the boy-now-a-man who had massacred his uncle's Jedi academy and burned it to the ground, who unquestioningly and unthinkingly destroyed villages and townships, tortured Resistance pilots and sliced up the spine of one of their most loyal and dedicated soldiers. In hushed, private tones, Resistance fighters said as much, far away enough from the general's tent that they wouldn't be heard but close enough that they might be able to get a look at Kylo Ren's boots.
Moving him takes a certain amount of precaution, especially once Rey rejoins Poe and Finn in the medical bay, with those involved in his relocation concerned that physical distance from the other Force user in their camp and the one who had put him in such a state might compromise his lack of consciousness, but Luke is present for every moment of it. Leia stays always within arm's width, an impressive accomplishment considering how small she is. The general is there every step they take from her tent until the moment Kylo is sealed inside his makeshift prison and then some, lingering in the airlock and watching the overhead light turn his skin the color of thick chalk. She leaves only when Rey arrives, when she has to do more than just run the gamut of what she might say - and have to do - to her son when he's no longer out cold.
Kylo smells her when he surfaces from unconsciousness, that lingering touch of fresh powder and engine grease, a byproduct of having spent so many hours and days and years in Han Solo's company and embrace. It's like some of him has rubbed off into her skin and become a part of her. When he was a child, he would bury his face in her neck, hidden underneath the heavy, dark sheet of her hair, and breathe deep, thinking that if he could breathe in enough of her, he would become a part of her in the same way, that if he curled tightly enough into the small space underneath her ear, where her pulse beat so strongly as she tucked him against her, that all the darkness that called to him, tried to pull him under, would be unable to find him. Just smelling that lingering fragrance is enough to recall the memory with such startling accuracy that his eyes open, and it's a moment before he realizes that the hard surface under his back is not the firm band of his mother's arms shielding him but the cool, metallic bench of a First Order shuttle.
By all appearances, there is no desperate surfacing, no panicked grasp at consciousness. His eyes are closed one moment, breathing steady and slow, and then they are open, staring hard at the overhead light without squinting, letting harsh white flood into his pupils and blind him momentarily, washing out the world around him and, consequently, Rey, who he can feel is in close proximity without even having to cast out in an effort to look for her.
Internally, he is screaming. His heart pounds hard and heavy with renewed vigor against his sternum, understanding the gravity of his situation not in terms of his own fate at the hands of the Resistance - because he knows, even while lying there, that escape may not be easy but that it will come - but in terms of what happens after he returns to the First Order and has to explain himself. It surges throughout him like a drug, his pulse racing in his own ears, fingers curling into fists at his sides. He says nothing as he sits up and swings his legs around to plant his feet firmly on the bench and stares Rey down across the threshold, letting none of what he's thinking or feeling surface either on his face or in any attempt she might make to look into his mind. His fingers curl hard around the lip of the bench, and then, legs too long to be folded comfortably in a sitting position, he stands, lumbering forward with a heavy gait, each step taken darkening his face that much more.
Some mechanical apparatus explodes over her left shoulder, showering the floor with sparks and letting a hiss of steam fill the immediate area. It's a small release, but the only one he can afford himself without bringing the whole Resistance down on him at once. Without bringing Skywalker down on him. To say that he's angry with her betrayal would be an understatement, but there's something else that calls itself to the surface as well. Something like vindication. )
hahahaha hey that's okay i brought a tent and rations for just such an occasion
Leia had been the only one brave enough to stand within a fifty foot radius of him following Rey's departure from the general's tent. Save Luke, who hung back at his sister's elbow, only taking up his position at her immediate right once she had cleared most of the dirt and grime away from her son's face, picked the soggy, dead leaves out of his hair, with the sort of mystified, reverent air of someone having an out of body experience. Han Solo's murderer certainly didn't warrant the kind of gentle care and attention being afforded to him, and neither did the boy-now-a-man who had massacred his uncle's Jedi academy and burned it to the ground, who unquestioningly and unthinkingly destroyed villages and townships, tortured Resistance pilots and sliced up the spine of one of their most loyal and dedicated soldiers. In hushed, private tones, Resistance fighters said as much, far away enough from the general's tent that they wouldn't be heard but close enough that they might be able to get a look at Kylo Ren's boots.
Moving him takes a certain amount of precaution, especially once Rey rejoins Poe and Finn in the medical bay, with those involved in his relocation concerned that physical distance from the other Force user in their camp and the one who had put him in such a state might compromise his lack of consciousness, but Luke is present for every moment of it. Leia stays always within arm's width, an impressive accomplishment considering how small she is. The general is there every step they take from her tent until the moment Kylo is sealed inside his makeshift prison and then some, lingering in the airlock and watching the overhead light turn his skin the color of thick chalk. She leaves only when Rey arrives, when she has to do more than just run the gamut of what she might say - and have to do - to her son when he's no longer out cold.
Kylo smells her when he surfaces from unconsciousness, that lingering touch of fresh powder and engine grease, a byproduct of having spent so many hours and days and years in Han Solo's company and embrace. It's like some of him has rubbed off into her skin and become a part of her. When he was a child, he would bury his face in her neck, hidden underneath the heavy, dark sheet of her hair, and breathe deep, thinking that if he could breathe in enough of her, he would become a part of her in the same way, that if he curled tightly enough into the small space underneath her ear, where her pulse beat so strongly as she tucked him against her, that all the darkness that called to him, tried to pull him under, would be unable to find him. Just smelling that lingering fragrance is enough to recall the memory with such startling accuracy that his eyes open, and it's a moment before he realizes that the hard surface under his back is not the firm band of his mother's arms shielding him but the cool, metallic bench of a First Order shuttle.
By all appearances, there is no desperate surfacing, no panicked grasp at consciousness. His eyes are closed one moment, breathing steady and slow, and then they are open, staring hard at the overhead light without squinting, letting harsh white flood into his pupils and blind him momentarily, washing out the world around him and, consequently, Rey, who he can feel is in close proximity without even having to cast out in an effort to look for her.
Internally, he is screaming. His heart pounds hard and heavy with renewed vigor against his sternum, understanding the gravity of his situation not in terms of his own fate at the hands of the Resistance - because he knows, even while lying there, that escape may not be easy but that it will come - but in terms of what happens after he returns to the First Order and has to explain himself. It surges throughout him like a drug, his pulse racing in his own ears, fingers curling into fists at his sides. He says nothing as he sits up and swings his legs around to plant his feet firmly on the bench and stares Rey down across the threshold, letting none of what he's thinking or feeling surface either on his face or in any attempt she might make to look into his mind. His fingers curl hard around the lip of the bench, and then, legs too long to be folded comfortably in a sitting position, he stands, lumbering forward with a heavy gait, each step taken darkening his face that much more.
Some mechanical apparatus explodes over her left shoulder, showering the floor with sparks and letting a hiss of steam fill the immediate area. It's a small release, but the only one he can afford himself without bringing the whole Resistance down on him at once. Without bringing Skywalker down on him. To say that he's angry with her betrayal would be an understatement, but there's something else that calls itself to the surface as well. Something like vindication. )
Copycat.